2. MATTHEW
Chapter two
MATTHEW
NOTHING SAYS WELCOME LIKE A KISS FROM AN ESCAPED LLAMA
I thought setting up an office for me to work out of was overkill.
I can handle most things from my laptop, and I could have hooked up a printer in my room at the bed and breakfast, but Connor insisted.
He bought the old tailor’s and the apartment above, and for the last few weeks I’ve been setting things up.
The tailor’s has this old charm that you’d expect from a small town.
The guy who ran the place inherited it from his father, who got it from his father, or so the woman at the general store was telling me.
He never had children of his own, so the place was just closed up when he died a few years back.
There was a lot to sort through. I didn’t want to just throw it all away, so I opened up the main doors and popped a sign in the window for people in town to take whatever they wanted.
Connor insisted he didn’t want payment for anything, so within two days, almost all of it had been cleared out.
The school took most of the fabric and the sewing machines, and the hanging rails will be repurposed in a young couple’s farmhouse they’re renovating.
I’ve decided to keep the built-in shelves and the large cedar table.
There’s a long notch in the wood where the tailor’s scissors rested to cut evenly through the lengths of fabric over generations, and I kind of like the idea that even though this place will no longer be a tailor’s, it is taking on new life as something different.
I set up the filing cabinets I had delivered in one of the two fitting rooms at the back, and the other has a bench seat along the back wall, so I’ll just use it for storage or something if I need to. For now it can sit empty.
The tailor’s chair is well-worn leather and brass, but it’s somehow the most comfortable chair I’ve ever sat in, so it’s staying too.
I spin in the chair over to the wall shelves and start opening boxes of office supplies.
The drawers are a little stiff, and I stand to give one a good pull.
The drawer flies out completely, spilling scissors and pins and bits and pieces onto the ground.
I grab an empty box and kneel to start picking it all up, testing the scissors as I go and setting aside the ones that are still smooth to open and close.
Then I spot the small round copper coin, and my heart skips a beat.
“See a penny pick it up, all day long you’ll have good luck,” I say, pushing the pins aside to get to it.
It’s a 1932 Wheat Penny. I quickly search through the rest of the mess to see if I can find any others, and when I’m sure it’s the only one, I leave the mess for later and head upstairs to add this one to my collection.
I have one hundred and seventy-one pennies, seventy-two with this one.
My mother started it; she’s been collecting lucky pennies her whole life, so when I was old enough to understand what she was doing, I started doing it too.
My first one was an 1862 Indian Head cent.
I’d let go of my mother’s hand to grab it from the road, and she ran to pull me to the side just as a flowerpot fell from a balcony above, crashing to the ground right where we’d been standing.
Lucky, right? I was still in trouble for running onto the road, but she let me keep the penny all the same.
I kept them in a jar for the longest time, but then I found a box frame online a while back, meant for weddings.
Guests are supposed to sign thin wooden hearts and drop them into the slot at the top as a unique sort of guest book.
I have two now, with the first frame too full to take any more of the copper and nickel coins.
They’re both set on the mantle above the old fireplace, next to a picture of me and my mom sitting on the stoop of our old apartment building back in Texas.
I snap a pic of the coin with my phone and send it off to Mom, then drop the new addition into the slot and watch it settle into place on top of the row beneath.
That’s the other part of the tradition. Whenever either of us finds a penny, we send the other person a picture; it makes it sort of like we’re still finding them together, even though we’re miles apart.
My phone chimes, and I find a delivery notification for the ranch.
Hopefully, it’s for the last supplies needed for the new stables.
The main structure will be finished off this week, so we’re just waiting on the last few things like feeders, buckets, and name plates.
I ordered those specially. I actually ordered new ones for all the horses.
There’s a guy in Texas who used to always be at the markets near home selling burned wooden plaques and signs, so when I got the names for the new arrivals from Dean, I reached out to make the order.
I got new ones for all the existing horses too.
The old ones in the stables are chipped and faded, so these new ones will be perfect.
Pulling up to Beaker Brothers Ranch, my car skids to a stop on the loose gravel drive, drawing the attention of a few of the cows grazing near the fence.
“Sorry,” I say as I climb out. The large box is sitting on the porch, and I rush over and check the label to make sure it’s something I ordered.
“Yes,” I say, recognizing the sender. “It’s the name plates.
” I slice through the tape quickly and pull out the first bubble-wrapped piece.
The old-world scent of linseed oil drifts up from the wood, warm and nutty like toasted wheat.
It turned out better than I could have hoped.
The Beaker Brothers logo is burned perfectly into the top right corner, and across the plaque in a matching font is the name Queenie.
Before I know what’s happening, a warm, wet tongue slides up the side of my face, and I stumble back onto my ass as a llama comes in for another taste.
“Sorry,” Skye, the young farmhand, calls as he jogs over. “Chewy, leave him alone.”
The llama, Chewy, who is notorious on Beaker Brothers Ranch for escaping his enclosure, simply leans down and goes to lick me again. I cover my face just in time, but his tongue still slides all slick and gross over my hands.
“He just took off, sorry,” Skye says as he reaches the porch, loops a rope around the llama’s neck, and hands me a red rag from his back pocket. I wipe over my face and hands and pass it back.
“How is he still getting out?” I ask.
Skye shrugs. “If I knew that, I’d have half a hope of stopping him.” He drags the llama off the porch. The stubborn thing tries to pull away and come back to me, so I get out of there, grabbing the box and heading toward the stables.
I don’t see Atlas right away, so I head inside the old stables to look for him.
The scent of straw and manure assaults my nose before I remember to breathe through my mouth.
I’m sure the more time I spend around this place, the less pungent it will be.
That’s if I get to spend more time around here.
The board sent me to spy on Connor, report back with a way to remove him from the controlling power of the company, and when I thought he was going to be just like his grandfather, I agreed.
But then I met him and realized he’s nothing like that asshole.
Connor actually cares about places like this, and I told the board that in my last meeting with them.
I figured as Connor’s the boss, only he could really fire me.
So my best chance was to make myself useful. Whatever Connor wanted, I planned to take care of it.
A bray draws my attention, and I follow the sound down the row to the end stall where a beautiful warm-caramel-colored horse is standing.
His large dark eyes glisten under the soft lights of the stables.
I wonder why he’s in here when all the rest of the horses are out running around the paddock.
Maybe he’s sick. The horse snorts, nostrils flaring like he’s trying to get a sense of me.
I smell far better than he does, that’s for sure.
I take a step closer, and he brays again, stomping a foot.
I can’t remember if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, so I hold up my hand and slowly inch closer.
“Easy, boy. Girl. Horse,” I chuckle, and then I glance down and find confirmation it’s a male. His ears flicker at my laugh, but he doesn’t move away. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
I pause, my fingertips an inch from his fur, and he tilts his head into my hand.
“There’s a good boy,” I say as I slide my palm up the side of his long head and down his neck. “You’re a beauty, you are,” I tell him. He steps closer to the stable door, nudging my head with his and braying softly this time.
“Oh, you’re a cuddly boy, aren’t you? What’s your name, then?”
“Loki,” a familiar voice says, and I turn to find Atlas leaning against the door frame, wide muscled arms folded over his chest and a confused scowl on his face.